


i want every other freckle

by akhikosanada



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Aprons, Bottom Sylvain Jose Gautier, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Top Felix Hugo Fraldarius, happy birthday sylvain! felix is going to obliterate your hole, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhikosanada/pseuds/akhikosanada
Summary: “There you are,” Sylvain greets him, eyes dark under the red of his hair, pale skin peeking out from under his apron.He’s seated on the open kitchen counter, his naked legs in a careless, prudish cross under the edge of fabric riding up his bare thighs, one hand resting next to the curve of his hips where they’re framed by the thin thread keeping the apron tied together behind him. Felix focuses on the glimpse of a pink nipple when one of the straps slips from Sylvain’s shoulder to the curve of his bicep, and hates how he immediately grows half-hard at the sight. When he traces past the crux of Sylvain’s collarbones to properly look at him, Sylvain’s lazy smile is framed in the red shadow of the day-old beard he’s forgotten to shave, whose burn drives Felix to the brink of insanity each time he rides Sylvain’s face.“Welcome home,” Sylvain says, coy like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. “Hope you’re hungry.”Felix wants to cook something nice for Sylvain. Sylvain has other plans.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 210





	i want every other freckle

**Author's Note:**

> orgasm denial? in MY smut? more likely than u think
> 
> This fic is a commission for Michelle @/rin_meesh on Twitter!! I wish you a very happy birthday and thank you so so much for your trust <3! I really hope you like it!!  
> The "hope you're hungry" line is inspired by Lin @_felain's fanart and it's plagued my mind for MONTHS now
> 
> I really hope all of you readers enjoy it and thank you so much again for all the support!! <3 It's 3am now im off to sleep

Here’s the thing: Felix is an absolutely, utterly, positively terrible cook.

Sylvain knows this — Goddess, he _hopes_ Sylvain knows this by now — and still intends to marry him, if the engagement ring he’s currently twisting around his finger as he settles on the ugly metro seat is any indication; still, Felix feels a bit self-conscious about the fact, and especially on days like this one. The plastic grocery bag crinkles when he sets it on the empty seat next to his, the recipe for Sylvain’s birthday meal playing out on loop in his head like a nursery rhyme: chicken, bell peppers, tomatoes and onions, stewed together with a mix of spices for a traditional Basque dish, and Felix has no idea how to cook half of these ingredients, but he wouldn’t be Felix Fraldarius if he let a pan and an almost-empty bottle of olive oil stop him. He hopes the mascarpone won’t curdle in the stuffy metro heat — luckily enough, tiramisu is both Sylvain’s favorite dessert and about the only one Felix can stomach, thanks to the coffee, so a manuscript recipe is always stuck to their fridge in case Sylvain feels fancy enough to treat them to something a little more special than carbonara pasta or fruity milkshakes, and there’s only so much Felix can fuck up, right?

Though, if he were to speak honestly, truthfully, his lack of skill isn’t the only thing keeping Felix from cooking. Felix also just really likes watching Sylvain in the kitchen.

It’s the little physical things: the way Sylvain’s eyebrows knit together in focus, sketching lines on the sides of his nose as he cuts vegetables; the curve of his mouth as they part over a spoon for a fleeting taste; the ripple of strength in his arms when he shows off and twirls a pan in his hands before setting it down onto the fire; the graceful dance of his fingers cinching his waist with the tie of an apron or of his broad hands wiping off a spill with a kitchen towel or of his tongue twirling around a fingertip to remove any excess cream; the echo of his voice as it fills up the space with songs fluming along the scent of food that drifts through their flat.

It’s also the deeper feelings the sight stirs into him, profound and sharp like a glass heart breaking — his presence in Felix’s universe, not as the former Gautier real estate heir, not as a genius photographer, not as the front runner for this year’s Henri Cartier-Bresson Award; but as removed from these labels, _any_ label, as can be — as _Sylvain_ , his fiancé and lover and best friend.

Felix is certain his own kitchen experience wouldn’t be as homely and peaceful a sight, so he’ll spare Sylvain the trouble: he’ll take him to their bathroom and let him sink into a nice bath and relax while he’s busy wrangling the food he’s bought into shape. Most of all, he’ll take care of Sylvain, for once, although one dinner won’t be enough to return all the favors Sylvain has gifted Felix for years. It’s a perfect plan, truly.

It’s only when his key slides in the lock of their apartment that Felix thinks Sylvain may already be cooking something.

He swears when he opens the door, and relief sinks into him when he doesn’t smell the usual aroma of warm dinner as he steps into the entryway; there’s a lilt in Sylvain’s voice when he calls Felix’s name, a little too cheerful, a bit too baritone, the kind he likes using when he loves to prove people how much trouble he is, and when Felix steps into the main room—

“There you are,” Sylvain greets him, eyes dark under the red of his hair, pale skin peeking out from under his apron.

He’s seated on the open kitchen counter, his naked legs in a careless, prudish cross under the edge of fabric riding up his bare thighs, one hand resting next to the curve of his hips where they’re framed by the thin thread keeping the apron tied together behind him. Felix can feel his gaze rake along the dip of his waist as though he could rip the stupid cotton apart, that stupid fucking apron Claude had given them for their housewarming party that says _Professional Meat Handler_ in thick red font across Sylvain’s naked chest; he focuses on the glimpse of a pink nipple when one of the straps slips from Sylvain’s shoulder to the curve of his bicep and hates how he immediately grows half-hard at the sight. When he traces past the crux of Sylvain’s collarbones to properly look at him, Sylvain’s lazy smile is framed in the red shadow of the day-old beard he’s forgotten to shave, whose burn drives Felix to the brink of insanity each time he rides Sylvain’s face.

“Welcome home,” Sylvain says, coy like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. “Hope you’re hungry.”

Felix is ravenous.

There’s no ceremony in the drop of Felix’s grocery bag as Felix closes the space between them and crowds Sylvain against the counter, no subtleness in the way he crashes into him and bites at Sylvain’s lips for a taste. Sylvain indulges him, lets Felix pry his smirk open with his tongue, lets Felix spread his legs and run deft fingers along the dust of freckles and red hair like spun sugar over his thighs — Felix’s hands reach up, up, up, knead at the firm muscle of Sylvain’s ass as Sylvain mouths at Felix’s neck and doesn’t bother undoing anything else than Felix’s belt and the buttons of his pants. Felix’s gaze drifts down Sylvain’s silhouette, the familiar stretch of toned muscle hidden from view by that damned apron, stopping at the angle of Sylvain’s hips to see Sylvain’s hard cock staining wetness over white, and it’s like the breath has been punched out of his lungs.

“Look at you,” Felix tries to whisper, and it comes out a growl. “You’re so eager already, and I haven’t even touched you.”

Sylvain pushes forward, tries to grind against Felix’s thigh where it’s settled between his legs, but Felix holds him back until he’s whining. “What,” Sylvain asks, rhetorical, his eyes shards of smoky garnet as they stare into Felix, then a little lower. There’s precum beading through the apron. “You think I waited for you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Felix swears, and he drops down to his knees.

The distant haze of Sylvain’s moan rings sweet against the walls when Felix finally gets his mouth on him, nips at the tip of his cock through the cotton, sucks flavorless fabric and wet tartness along his tongue. He feels Sylvain’s fingers finding purchase at the back of his head, threading into his ponytail, ever soft and tender even in moments like these, like he’s fragile, like he’s precious. _Wanna feel you, my heart_ , Sylvain sighs as Felix grazes the edge of teeth along his length, _wanna fuck your pretty mouth_ , and Felix usually doesn’t comply to Sylvain’s demands, not immediately, makes him work for it and beg for his favors — but it’s Sylvain’s birthday, and Felix can allow Sylvain a little indulgence. He feels more than he sees Sylvain’s shiver when he slowly, oh so slowly lifts the fabric up Sylvain’s thighs, feels it in goosebumps along the palm of the hand that spreads Sylvain’s legs a little wider; the hem of the apron brushes against Sylvain’s dick as Felix pulls it up, makes it jump against the fit planes of Sylvain’s abs, precum dripping onto the red hair at the base when Felix drags Sylvain closer to the end of the counter, closer to where he needs Felix most.

“Fe,” Sylvain says, his voice on the razor-edge of desperation as Felix ghosts open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, “please,” and the last word soars into sighs as Felix finally takes him in his mouth.

Sylvain loves it when Felix sucks him off, Felix knows, could come just like this, buried to the hilt past Felix’s lips until Felix can think about nothing but swallowing around Sylvain’s cock pulsing down his throat. Today, though, Felix takes his sweet time unraveling him at the seams, licks long stripes up the underside, teases the frenulum with the soft tip of his tongue, runs the plush of his lips over the head until Sylvain pushes shallow thrusts past his teeth. One of his hands plays with Sylvain’s balls, squeezes just the right side of painful and rolls them between his fingers, errs a little further to the rim of Sylvain’s hole—

Felix hums around Sylvain’s cock in a way that makes it twitch, lets his tongue catch against the slit as he pulls away and looks up into Sylvain’s eyes. Felix can feel the wet strand of drool that still connects his mouth to Sylvain, and when he licks his lips, Sylvain grows even harder. “So eager,” Felix laughs as he pushes a finger into Sylvain’s wet, loosened hole, pulls it out before Sylvain can sink onto it, licks at the lube before it drips onto the floor. His other hand caresses Sylvain in lazy strokes, the kind that makes Sylvain’s breath hitch in his chest and whisper soft little noises, not tight enough to bring relief, Felix knows. His lips brush against Sylvain’s balls, his tongue working over the skin, pulling one into his mouth to suck on as he strokes harder; Felix lets go with a wet _pop_ as Sylvain slides over the edge of the kitchen counter, feels Sylvain’s hard cock tense against his palm as his tongue pulls at Sylvain’s rim and works him open. Felix pushes inside at the same pace he fists Sylvain’s cock, harder and faster until Sylvain’s frame is shaking, sob-wrecked — _Do you wanna come_ , Felix asks, _wanna let go all over my face and mess me up, lick you own cum off my mouth_ , and only when Sylvain sings a litany of _yes, yes, yes_ does Felix let go of his dick entirely.

Sylvain almost slips right off the counter, his length twitching back against his body when Felix stands back up, swearing _fuck_ and _Fe_ and _God_ as his shakey legs steady him. Felix doesn’t blame him; one glance downward confirms he’s in the same state, hard and leaking where Sylvain had pulled his cock free from his pants and underwear earlier — he strokes himself from base to tip, once, twice, thrice, and when he lifts his head Sylvain is bent over the counter, looking at him from above his shoulder, gaze blazed in burnt umber frenzy. A hand slips out of the front pocket of his apron, sends through the air a small bottle of lube that Felix is surprisingly deft enough to catch, even in these circumstances.

“Angel,” Sylvain says, and the fucked-out tone of his voice is enough to make Felix pour a liberal amount of lube all over his own cock; Sylvain spreads out one of his cheeks with his hand, his hole clenching around nothing, begging for Felix to—

“Come fill me up.”

Sylvain’s back arches in a pretty half-moon as Felix sinks into him, a single, fluid motion that pushes a tiny drop of cum out of Sylvain, splattering at Felix’s feet. It’s like Sylvain has been made for him, molded by him — Felix pulls at the apron tie as he fucks into him, spurred on by Sylvain’s moans of _right there_ , _again_ , _so good_ , the drag of his length in and out Sylvain’s rim giving him intermittent flashes of Sylvain’s fat cock dripping useless and neglected onto the hardwood floor. Felix bends forward to brush soft kisses along Sylvain’s shoulders, unvoiced evidences of reverence that Felix never finds the right words for, threads a hand into the crimson of Sylvain’s hair to gently pull him higher up, until Felix can press his chest against the wide expanse of Sylvain’s back; Sylvain reaches up to tangle his fingers with Felix’s, and Felix catches a glint of their matching rings in the light, shining off their skin to the rhythm of his thrusts. _Mine_ , he hears himself saying as he grounds his hips into Sylvain, Sylvain urging him on with sobs of _always, always yours, wanna come, want your come_ — and it’s what unravels him completely, turns his vision white as he buries himself inside Sylvain and feels his cock throb deep inside of him, the clench of Sylvain’s hole milking him for everything he has to give as Sylvain jerks himself off to completion.

The underside of the apron is sticky and filthy as Sylvain lets it fall to the floor, a crumpled mess of cotton; Felix sees his release dribble out along Sylvain’s legs as he catches his breath, hands propped against the counter, and fights the desire to push it back right into him, with his fingers, with a toy — _another time_ , he thinks as he curls his arms around Sylvain’s waist, hugging him from behind.

“You’re gonna wrinkle your suit,” Sylvain says even as he melts into Felix’s embrace, his head lolling against Felix’s when he covers Felix’s hands with his.

“Don’t care.”

“Was that for me?” Sylvain nods towards the forgotten grocery bag, shivers as Felix kisses the nape of his neck in answer. “You’re so sweet when you want to.”

“Say I’m sweet again and you’re not getting dinner.”

“We both know I’m going to cook, though.” Sylvain laughs when he turns around, rests his forehead against Felix’s, and Felix doesn’t manage to fight back his blush when he answers.

“You could teach me.”

“To cook?”

“Mmh.”

Sylvain laughs against Felix’s lips, a fond huff, warm like a summer breeze. “We need to buy matching aprons, then.”

It doesn’t sound like a bad deal, Felix thinks. He doesn’t mind returning the favor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much for reading and please tell me if you liked it!! <3 
> 
> Title song: Every Other Freckle - Alt-J


End file.
